


Bittersuite 1942 ~ Please Have Snow…

by Dash_O_Pepper



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Duty, Gen, Mystery, Suspense, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dash_O_Pepper/pseuds/Dash_O_Pepper
Summary: It's Christmas Eve eve 1942, and the Heroes have been given an assignment to meet with an Underground agent. Are they walking into a trap, or something far more unexpected? [2017 PBA Award Winner: Silver - Long General Story]
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Please Have Snow…

**Author's Note:**

> **_Author’s Notes :_** _The author wishes to thank her German beta, Kirsten._  
>  • 2017 Papa Bear Award (PBA) Winner: Silver (Long General Story). The author gratefully acknowledges her readers, reviewers, and all those who voted for this story in the 2017 PBAs.  
> • Verbiage is consistent for the time period.  
> • Originally published under the pseudonym “Cassandra Troy” in October 2003; this version, unlike the previous, is complete.  
> • This story may also be found on Fanfiction.net.

**“ _Weihnachtsmann_?”** the officer’s puzzled expression mirrored that of the four men who were gathered with him in their secret tunnel below their barracks at the prison camp.

“Mother Goose, please confirm. You did say _Weihnachtsmann_?”

The voice on the wireless repeated the name.

He shook his head at the answer. “Roger. Papa Bear over and out.”

This wasn’t the first time that, after speaking with his superiors in London, Robert Hogan felt that one too many bombs had fallen near Whitehall.

“Were they serious, Colonel?” asked the radioman, as he powered down the transmitter.

Hogan handed the mic to his Staff Sergeant. “Seems like it, Kinch.”

“What’s it mean, sir?”

He looked at the youngest of his staff. “Just that someone has a strange sense of humour in choosing code names, Carter.”

Hogan had given up trying to understand London’s system in assigning code names to their operatives: it was an effort in futility. He’d finally gotten used to his present one, which at least was a bit more imposing than the Goldilocks moniker he’d been saddled with in the first month or so of this bizarre assignment.

“So, you’re goin’ out to meet ’im, Colonel?”

Hogan nodded at the RAF Corporal. “You heard London: he’s a valuable agent—Unsung Hero classification.”

The coding of the name was familiar to the men. “Unsung Hero” was reserved only for those men and women who had a highly organized operation behind enemy lines.

“If _Weihnachtsmann_ is asking for a meeting with Papa Bear, it must be important.”

*.*.*.*.*

Hogan stuck his hands into his flight jacket’s pocket in a futile attempt to keep warm, as he followed his escort, Corporal Langenscheidt, across the _stalag_ compound.

The snow that had been threatening for the past day was finally starting. Both RAF reconnaissance and German meteorological reports stated that this storm was expected to be a bad one—a blizzard, likely to ground planes on both sides.

As a boy in Connecticut, he had always loved weather like this, especially this close to Christmas. But here in Germany, snow wasn’t friendly: it was an enemy. Too much, and he could be trapped or delayed far from camp; too little, and a clear trail could be laid right to the emergency tunnel entrance, which would reveal his whole underground setup.

Papa Bear was committed to a _rendez-vous_ tonight, but he had an uneasiness about it. That sixth sense that there was more to this meeting than London had told him. Something was gnawing at him, and for good or ill, he’d learned to trust that gut feeling over the last few months since the formation of his escape and sabotage operation at _Luftstalag_ 13.

*.*.*.*.*

“Col. Robert Hogan, senior prisoner of war officer reporting, _Kommandant.”_ He came to relaxed attention in front of the officer’s desk and made a sloppy salute, refusing to give in to the formality that the German military demanded.

Col. Wilhelm Klink returned the salute, ignoring the attitude behind it. “Col. Hogan, may I present _Herr_ Nikolaus Klaussen and _Fräulein_ Dora Müller of the Ministry of Propaganda.”

Hogan nodded his acknowledgement to both visitors, noting the swastika armbands on their civilian clothes. Neither appeared to be the type who would be looking to make certain the POWs had a happy Christmas.

Klaussen was one of those men whose age was impossible to judge. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard might have, at first glance, made him appear to be in his fifties, but his face had nary a line or wrinkle, and his suit did nothing to disguise a powerful physique. His cobalt blue eyes were bright, intelligent and watchful, as though there was very little that escaped his notice.

His companion caught Hogan’s eye immediately. She was petite, almost tiny in comparison to Klaussen, with a pixie-like face and blonde hair that might have been soft and radiant, had it not been drawn back into a tight, severe bun. Her suit was unflattering, neutering any trace of a waist curve or bustline. It was almost as though she was trying to disguise the prettiness of her features. There was something about her that was, Hogan thought, curiously enchanting, and he had the feeling that he could gaze upon her all day. His reverie was broken by Klaussen.

“So, this is one of the American swine.”

After nearly four months as a POW, Hogan had grown inured to the insults and epithets that Nazi officials hurled at Allied soldiers. To rise to the bait was to give their words power. Instead, he’d learned to watch for opportunities to unnerve them or strike back.

“I see _Herr_ Klaussen was in Dusseldorf last week.” Hogan smiled defiantly at the minister. He was well aware of the success of that raid, and it felt good to rub the enemy’s nose in it.

“Insolence!” Klink slammed his fist on the desk.

Klaussen raised his hand in a dismissive gesture at the _Kommandant_ ’s outburst. “Sarcasm is a weapon of the impotent, _Oberst_.”

The venom with which the remark was spoken startled Hogan. He had faced the irrational hatred of all non-Aryans by the _SS_ and _Gestapo,_ but this was something different. There was something in Klaussen’s eyes that betrayed his contempt—not for an American soldier—but for Robert Hogan. It was a feeling that made his blood run cold.

The minister turned toward the _Kommandant._ “You have told me that there has never been a successful escape from this camp, _Oberst_?”

Klink smiled delightedly. “ _Jawohl, Herr_ Klaussen. There have been forty-three attempts since this camp was opened, and not one of them successful. No one has ever escaped from _Stalag_ 13.”

“An impressive record.”

Klaussen’s eyes flashed their loathing at Hogan, making him uneasy. He could feel the sweat beading in his palms, and for the life of him, he didn’t know why he was letting this Nazi get to him. Before he could work up an appropriate response, the office door opened, and the Sergeant of the Guard entered.

_“Herr Kommandant,_ Sergeant Schultz reporting as ordered.” The portly man saluted his superior and came to attention.

Klink returned the salute.

“Sergeant, _Herr_ Klaussen and _Fräulein_ Müller are here from the Ministry of Propaganda to review conditions in the camp.”

In his best Bavarian manner, the Sergeant turned toward the visitors, preparing to give them the formal greeting reserved for honoured guests.

Hogan noticed the look of terror that briefly flashed across Schultz’s face when he saw Klaussen. Something unsaid had passed between the two. It was the first time since he’d entered the office that Hogan could discern a chink in the cold, callous armour of the minister.

_“Oberst_ Klink,” Klaussen glanced idly at his wristwatch, recovering quickly. “It is getting late. I would be grateful if you would take _Fräulein_ Müller to review your facilities. I would like to remain here and examine the _stalag_ ’s records.”

_Another piece for the puzzle,_ thought Hogan. From the quickly veiled expression on the _Fräulein_ ’s face, this was something unexpected.

“Perhaps your Sergeant could remain and help me?”

Klink was about to voice a protest, but stopped as the woman spoke directly to him.

_“Herr Kommandant,_ won’t you join me?”

Hogan was surprised by her voice. It was melodic, nearly musical in tone and quality, and it appeared to have an immediate effect on Klink. His countenance softened and his mouth spread into a sappy grin.

“Delighted, my dear.” Klink pushed his chair from the desk, and came over to join the _Fräulein,_ helping her into her coat. Then shrugging on his own coat, followed by giving her his arm. He looked like a lovesick schoolboy, escorting his first date to the prom. The _Kommandant_ and Müller said nothing as they left the office, seemingly oblivious to the others in the room.

The whole scene made Hogan uneasy. Something was very wrong with this pair; every instinct he had was working overtime trying to make sense of what was happening. And his suspicions were only reinforced by Schultz, who was doing his damnedest to mask his expression over his superior’s actions.

“Sergeant, escort…” Klaussen paused as he examined Hogan closely, his mouth tightened, “the American back to his barracks, and then join me here.”

_“Jawohl,_ sir.” Schultz came to attention. “Col. Hogan, if you would follow me.”

Hogan said nothing to the minister. He was actually grateful that Klaussen had dismissed him. It would give him an opportunity to pump the Sergeant for some information about the visitors.

*.*.*.*.*

In the time he’d been in the office, a thin carpet of snow already covered the compound. He’d have a rough time at this evening’s meeting.

“So, Schultz, got any plans for Christmas?” asked Hogan, slowing his pace back to the barracks. He wanted to allow as much time as possible to get some answers.

The Sergeant matched the officer’s steps, a faraway expression on his face. _“Ja,_ this will be the first time in almost two years that my son will be home.”

Hogan could understand the soldier’s feelings; he’d already spent too many Christmases away from his own folks. “Looking forward to a nice family reunion?”

He nodded. “It has been too long.”

Now was the time to put the question to him. “Think that these ministry people are going to finish here by then? That Klaussen looks to be a real hard—”

Schultz stopped so suddenly that Hogan almost walked into him. He was caught off guard by the man’s response.

“Col. Hogan, you must never speak ill of _Herr_ Klaussen!” For Schultz the words were nearly an angry command.

_Bingo,_ he thought. _There is a connection between the two._

“Who is he, really, Schultz?”

“You do not know?” An obvious sadness passed across the man’s face. “Then, there is nothing more I can tell you. _Nothing,”_ he emphasised the last word.

“He’s not from the Ministry of Propaganda, is he?”

“If that is what he said, then that is who he is.” Schultz was adamant.

“What will happen if he discovers the six pounds of American coffee in your footlocker?”

Intimidation was often an effective weapon against the Sergeant of the Guard. This wasn’t one of those times.

“Please, Col. Hogan,” began Schultz, “I ask this not as a soldier…do not make an enemy of Nikolaus Klaussen. Those who do, live to regret it.”

*.*.*.*.*

“Coffee pot working, Kinch?” Hogan didn’t waste time with explanations, as he came through the barracks door and headed toward his quarters. Those could wait until after he got more information.

The Sergeant nodded. “We tested it just yesterday.”

“Trouble, sir?” asked Carter, shutting the officer’s door behind him and the other three men who made up Hogan’s immediate staff.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Two visitors from the Ministry of Propaganda. Schultz is scared of them.”

“Who isn’t the strudel king afraid of?” the French Corporal’s comment elicited a laugh from the other men.

“There’s something else. Can’t quite put my finger on it. But something about those two just doesn’t add up.” Hogan refrained from expressing his own discomfiture in Klaussen’s presence. That was something he intended to keep to himself.

Kinch removed the small pewter pot from its storage place, and handed it to Hogan.

“You think they’re phoneys?” asked Newkirk.

The limey was often the most suspicious of the front-line team. Had his skills at mimicry, forgery and petty theft not been so invaluable to their success, Hogan sometimes wondered if he would have picked him had there been someone else with that same talent available.

“Don’t bet against it,” he replied, as he set up the disguised listening device.

*.*.*.*.*

Sgt. Hans Schultz shook his head as Col. Hogan closed the door to the barracks.

_He doesn’t understand the danger he is in._

Walking back to the _Kommandant_ ’s office, Schultz felt a chill pass through him that had little to do with the weather. There was not much he could hope to do to save Hogan from Nikolaus’ wrath, but he would try. In many ways, he admired the American; he was one of that rare breed who had the ability to find a light in whatever darkness existed. And the world had grown very dark these past few years.

*.*.*.*.*

“Hans, it has been far too long, _mein Freund_.” The minister hugged the heavy man.

“Much too long,” he smiled. “But what are you doing here, Nikolaus?”

“I could ask the same of you. What are you doing in this,” he fumbled for a word, “cesspool?”

Schultz did not meet his friend’s eyes. “When the factory was closed…”

“ _Ja,_ I’d heard that it was considered vital for the war effort.” Klaussen’s voice was quiet, “Weapons or toys? Of the two, which has more worth these days.”

The Sergeant nodded. “And being a soldier put food on the table.” He patted his stomach. It was an old joke between the two.

Klaussen invited Schultz to sit, and offered him one of Col. Klink’s cigars from the humidor on the _Kommandant_ ’s desk.

“ _Danke._ ” He nodded, as he partook of one of his superior’s finest Havanas.

The minister replaced the humidor. “You should have contacted me or one of my agents. You and your family have always been welcome in the North.”

“I know. But you know mama—”

“As stubborn at eighty as she was at eight,” smiled Klaussen.

Schultz laughed as he thought of his mother and the rest of his family in Heidelberg. “And with Georges in Warsaw with the _Wehrmacht_ …re-locating like that would have been extremely difficult.”

“And your pride would not let you, either, no doubt.”

The Sergeant feigned his surprise. “Had there been a need, I would have—”

“Do not lie to me, Hans!” he chastised him. “We have been friends too long for that to come between us.”

Schultz puffed heavily on the cigar in an attempt to hide his unease. He tried to quickly direct the conversation away from himself, back to a subject he felt was necessary. “I was surprised to see you here, and now of all times.” He looked Klaussen directly in the eye. “Nikolaus, what are you doing here?”

“Doing what I must…as all of us must.”

“But this close to—”

Klaussen slammed his hand on the desk. “You of all people! I thought you understood the nature of my mission!”

The Sergeant dropped the cigar, stunned by the outburst. “I-I am sorry,” he whispered, “I j-just thought…” His words trailed off as he saw his friend smile.

“No. It is _I_ who should apologize.” He shook his head. “I am getting too old for all this, and the world is changing far too much for me.”

“But your work is so vital.”

“Is it?” Klaussen shook his head. “Their radar…their sonar… all their technologies… are making it harder and harder for me to travel—Buenos Aires, Reykjavik, Berlin, Istanbul, Cairo, Delhi, Stalingrad, Kyoto, Manila…it is all the same.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “It was so much easier in the old days.”

“ _Ja,_ many things were.”

“But I have teams working on circumventing their detection devices. It appears to have worked. I was in New York City on the 26th of November—my agents in the United States needed my attention. As a race, _Amerikaners_ are very impatient.”

*.*.*.*.*

“ _Vereinigten Staaten,_ ” mumbled Carter as he struggled to translate the German he was hearing through the speaker. “This guy was in the States?”

Of the team, the Midwesterner was the only one with a limited familiarity with the language. As Europeans, Newkirk and LeBeau were able to function in several tongues. Kinch had learned German in high school; the Sergeant had hoped to attend Tuskegee for a degree in medicine, but family difficulties had changed his plans. As for Hogan, it had been a love of music and growing up in a German/Irish neighbourhood that had taught him the language. How little he knew then the use he’d be making of it.

_“_ _Ja. Ich habe es an den Männern in diesem Stalag beobachtet; vor allem an Oberst Hogan.”_

Hogan smiled to himself. Schultz was right: he was impatient. He never liked mysteries. Everything had to have an explanation, a solution. No matter how bizarre, he had always been known for coming up with an answer to a crisis or a situation. And right now, Klaussen looked to be a very big problem.

*.*.*.*.*

“This man, Hogan, what do you know of him?”

Schultz felt his heart miss a beat at the question. He had not been mistaken about Nikolaus’ dislike of the American Colonel.

“The prisoners are very reticent in talking about themselves, but from what I have seen, he’s a good man.”

“Good men are worth nothing today, Hans. This one’s worth even less than most.”

The Sergeant shook his head; he was surprised by his friend’s animosity toward Col. Hogan.

“I have a very large file on him. At one time, there were even suggestions made to recruit him.”

“What!”

*.*.*.*.*

_“_ _Ich habe eine sehr dicke Akte über ihn. Einmal gab es sogar den Vorschlag, ihn zu rekrutieren.”_

_“Was!”_

Hogan’s men looked at him. They didn’t need to say anything; the expressions on their faces betrayed their doubt in the fragile trust that had been built up among all of them these past few months.

Pulling together a multi-national force working behind enemy lines from within a POW camp was the stuff of fiction, but somehow he’d made it work.

_I’ll be damned if that s.o.b. destroys everything with his lies!_

*.*.*.*.*

“When Hogan commanded the 504th Bomb Group, his raids were considered among the most successful. After a bombing in Bremen that destroyed nine _U-bootes,_ the man was labelled an extreme danger to the _Reich._ A team was assigned to investigate ways to neutralize him—either in London or over Germany.”

_“Mein Gott.”_

“That’s when he came to my attention.”

*.*.*.*.*

_“_ _So wurde ich auf ihn aufmerksam.”_

“Colonel,” shouted Corporal Garlotti as he threw open the door to Hogan’s office, “red alert. Klink and a woman coming this way!”

Hogan nodded. There was no time for any discussion. That would come later. Right now, they were in a race for their survival.

Kinch grabbed the coffee pot, quickly putting it into its hiding place in the Colonel’s desk, and then followed the other four men into the main room of the barracks.

In the few months the fifteen men had been billeted in Barracks 2, they had developed an almost automatic routine for when the guards or _Kommandant_ made an inspection.

Hogan, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter and Kinchloe gathered around the main table, to all outward appearances playing a game of poker. But each held a specific position: Hogan keeping any visitors occupied in a verbal parley as he stood close to the small stove situated near the entrance; Carter in position to slow down anyone; Newkirk, shielded by Carter, able to use his _magic fingers_ to lift any wallets, documents or weapons as needed; LeBeau, who with minimal movement could trigger the opening to their secret tunnel entrance; and Kinch stationed on the far side of the table, able to get off a clear shot, if necessary.

As for Garlotti, Mills, Foster, Greenburg, Hammond, O’Brien, Olsen and the others, all were strategically placed, keeping silent watch, yet prepared for any eventuality.

*.*.*.*.*

“This surprises you, Hans?”

The Sergeant nodded.

“My interest was piqued when I’d read that an astrologer had also been assigned to the investigation. There were thoughts that this Hogan was in league with the devil.”

“The devil?” Schultz laughed at the absurdity of such a suggestion. There had been many strange things that happened in the _stalag_ since the American’s arrival, but he had no doubt that the man’s allegiance would not be found in Hell.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,” he quoted the Shakespearean verse, then stopped and looked sadly at Schultz, “and Hell.

“This world is engulfed in war, and more than you know hangs in the balance, _mein Freund.”_

“But surely you do not believe that Col. Hogan is in league with—”

“I’d almost wish he was. Then—on our side or not—he’d be a man! Instead, what has he done since being shot down? _Nichts!”_

*.*.*.*.*

_“Achtung!”_ shouted Cpl. Langenscheidt, as he opened the door to the barracks for _Kommandant_ Klink and the _Fräulein._

Hogan and his men stood. It was the nearest to attention that they were likely to give the Germans. He was glad for it. The more obstinate his men remained, the better their resilience as POWs.

“Col. Hogan,” began Klink, _“Fräulein_ Müller has asked to speak with some of your men regarding their treatment, camp conditions and such.”

“We did try to get reservations at the Berlin Hilton,” Hogan held a sarcastic grin, which matched the tone in his voice.

“The Colonel enjoys making jokes,” Müller carefully regarded Hogan, a small smile crossing her face. “Much like his sarcasm.”

It was a cutting comment and meant to be. Thankfully, his men didn’t seem to be aware of the verbal sparring between the two of them. Klaussen and Müller considered him beneath contempt. Based on the conversation the minister was having with Schultz, these two knew far more about him than they should, and it unnerved him.

“Your interest in our well-being is much funnier than anything I’ve said.”

Langenscheidt visibly tensed in preparation for an outburst from the _Kommandant._

Hogan expected the comment to get a rise from Klink. He was as surprised as the German Corporal that it hadn’t elicited any reaction. The _Kommandant_ still maintained that same curious expression he had earlier. It was as though the man was sleepwalking.

Ignoring Hogan’s comment, Müller turned toward Carter to begin her interview.

“Your name?”

Carter looked toward his commanding officer, his face doing a poor job of hiding his questioning of his superior on whether or not he should answer the Nazi.

Hogan nodded imperceptibly toward the Sergeant. They had nothing to lose, and depending on what the woman asked, they might be able to learn something further.

“Carter, Andrew J,” said the young man dutifully. “Sergeant. United States—”

“It’s quite all right, Sergeant. Your rank and serial number are not necessary. This is an informal visit.”

The young man relaxed slightly at her words, although there still remained a tenseness in his stance.

Müller smiled at him. “We are here to see that your incarceration is as comfortable as possible, especially during this season.”

The Germans could afford to be generous, thought Hogan. Despite the Allies’ best efforts, they were winning. He also noticed that the _Fräulein_ ’s voice had taken on that same musical quality he heard earlier in Klink’s office. Obviously, her venomous attitude was reserved exclusively for him.

*.*.*.*.*

“Nikolaus, you are mistaken about Col. Hogan,” whispered Schultz. “Please—I beg you—do not do anything rash.” He wanted to say more and felt that he must. Yet, the American, as much as the Sergeant liked him, was still the enemy, and there were things that had happened in the _stalag_ over these past few months that might better remain unsaid.

Klaussen shook his head. “Have no fear, Hans. I have neither the time nor the desire to act against him. Whatever the price of his actions remains between he and his maker.

“You asked earlier why I had come here,” the Minister smiled. “I have come to hunt bear.”

*.*.*.*.*

Thankfully, Klink and the Minister’s visit had been brief, thought Hogan. Overall, the questions had surprised him. They weren’t the standard ones he’d heard the Swiss Red Cross visitors ask: _Is your treatment decent?…Do you have enough to eat?…Have you been given adequate access to medical care?_ Instead the _Fräulein_ had asked his men the things they missed of home.

The reminiscences were, in many ways, worse than a full-fledged interrogation would have been. You can guard your words and thoughts about which bomber group you were assigned to or the location of a top-secret airbase. Despite their importance, they’re trivialities because they remain outside yourself.

Missing throwing a ball with your kid brother; sitting down for Sunday dinner with the folks; dancing cheek to cheek with your sweetheart; or even drinking an ice-cold ’Gansett at Fenway, these are the little things that become a part of your life and make you who you are. Remove them, or access to them, and you start to feel the emptiness, the ache, the longing for home.

In the nearly four months they’d been in _Stalag_ 13, Hogan had kept the entire prisoner population focused on the present—not the past and definitely not the future—that remained too uncertain. It was much easier for the men in Barracks 2 than the rest of the _stalag_ ; they knew of the operation. For the others, it was on a need-to-know basis only.

After this visit, he wondered when the desire for escape would become so great that he wouldn’t be able to control some of them. And what would happen then? If he could see the melancholy on his staff’s faces, how much worse must it be for the others in the camp?

He fumbled with the pewter coffee pot/listening device, hoping that Schultz and Klaussen were not finished with their discussion. From what was said earlier, the Minister was a very real threat. Any man who could travel between New York and Nazi Germany in the middle of a war, as easily as he apparently could, represented a grave danger.

*.*.*.*.*

“I still do not understand, Nikolaus.” Schultz watched his friend carefully. “To jeopardize yourself and your work to hunt bear?”

“I seek a most elusive animal, Hans: Cunning, clever, resourceful…most dangerous in the wrong hands.”

The light dawned in the Sergeant’s eyes, and his voice reflected his horror. “A man? You are seeking a man?”

“He is already a hunted man. The _SS_ and the _Gestapo_ have placed a 25.000 RM price upon his head.”

“So much money for one man,” he whispered.

“If I have judged his character correctly from his reputation, they’ve undervalued his worth. It is not a mistake I intend to make.”

“Is it truly worth your risk?”

_“Ja,”_ Klaussen’s voice was hushed. “For one such as this Papa Bear, I would risk much. That is why I must meet him alone tonight.

“Then I wish you godspeed, _mein Freund.”_

Klaussen looked at his watch and rose. “Come, walk with me to my car. The _Fräulein_ and I must take our leave before dark.”

*.*.*.*.*

_“Für jemanden wie diesen Papa Bär würde ich viel riskiere. Deshalb muss ich ihm heute Abend allein begegnen.“_

“It’s a bleedin’ trap!” shouted Newkirk. His eyes were not looking at the coffee pot’s speaker, but were instead fixed directly on Hogan. The Englishman did nothing to hide the unsaid accusation on his face.

_“Komm, begleite mich zu meinem Auto. Das Fräulein und ich müssen uns vor Anbruch der Dunkelheit von hier verabschieden.”_

“They know everything about us,” added LeBeau.

Despite the revelation that the mission had been compromised, Hogan felt surprisingly calm. His sixth sense hadn’t been wrong. It functioned on a subconscious level, evaluating, judging, and warning him of impending danger. And the more time he spent in Germany, the more he was learning to trust it.

His men, though, were another matter. They had no reason to trust him or an assignment that realistically had no likelihood of success. Yet, they’d been willing in the beginning to continue the Allies’ fight behind enemy lines.

“Not everything,” he shook his head, unplugging the coffee pot/listening device. “If that was the case, I’d have been arrested—immediately.”

“So, they don’t know who Papa Bear is,” began Kinch, “they sure as hell will if you go.” The Sergeant added a hasty _sir_ to his statement.

“I say we pass on this mission.” The RAF Corporal’s tone was just shy of insubordinate.

Hogan let the infraction pass; now was not the time to pull rank—that could come later, if necessary. He was going to have to bank on his men’s loyalty, if not to him, then to the countries they served.

“Pass? This is one mission we can’t afford to pass on.” His voice was raised in challenge, daring any of them to interrupt. “You heard Klaussen. He’s got agents planted around the world. He’s got a team working to block our radar and sonar. He got in and out of New York last month—and it’s a cinch he wasn’t there for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.”

Hogan needed to drive his message home. “Papa Bear received an assignment from London to meet him tonight. If we pass on this,” he stressed those words, “we lose a chance to crack their spy network wide open.”

“You’d go out there alone to meet him, Colonel?” Carter’s voice was hushed.

He nodded. “Yes.” Hogan didn’t hesitate in answering the young Sergeant. Truth be told, if it came down to it, he would handle the mission single-handedly. Klaussen was a danger, one that needed to be eliminated.


	2. …And Mistletoe…

**Hogan inspected himself in the mirror.** He hated the _SS_ uniform and all it stood for, but it was what it represented that often made it an ideal disguise for missions. Fear could make men easily forget seeing things they might otherwise notice.

Placing the cap with the death’s-head insignia on his head, he turned to review his men. All but Carter were outfitted in _SS_ uniforms of varying ranks; the Sergeant looked out of place in civilian clothes.

The tension in the tunnel was palpable: not a good sign for the mission’s success. He’d managed to convince the men of the importance of this meeting, but it hadn’t been easy. Had it not been for Carter’s willingness to accompany him from the beginning, he doubted the others would have come.

Could he blame them? They were all volunteers, and would likely face far worse than he if the Nazis uncovered their operation—the _Wermacht_ and the Prussian mindset respected officers.

_Respect._

That was what it boiled down to.

Despite what they’d been through so far, he’d yet to fully gain their respect. LeBeau was guarded and wary, while Newkirk was downright hostile. Kinch had a legitimate reason to be defensive: Hogan had seen the treatment that Negro soldiers experienced at the hands of many white officers. Surprisingly, it was Carter who had expressed the most enthusiasm for this bizarre duty—because of it, Hogan had been willing to overlook the Sergeant’s inherent clumsiness.

“You have the plan straight, Carter?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m to approach _Weihnachtsmann_ and tell him I’m to take him to Papa Bear. I’ll lead him a ways; that’s when you’ll arrest us.”

“’e can barely speak English, let alone German,” mumbled Newkirk.

Hogan turned on the Corporal. “Mister, I’ve had it up to here with you!” He raised his hand neck high. “Take that uniform off, now.”

The four men were taken aback by the tone of voice of the normally laid-back officer.

If Newkirk had been afraid, Hogan would have accepted it. Not every man was cut out for the work he was asking them to perform. But, the Englishman’s constant defiance had to be stopped, and it had to be stopped now.

“Kinch, get Olsen.”

LeBeau was the first to recover his voice. “Sir?” he asked.

“The Corporal is being replaced.”

Newkirk flushed in anger. “You can’t do that!”

“Kinch, what are you waiting for?” Hogan didn’t need to shout: there were levels of inflection that could be far more effective than a raised voice.

The Sergeant looked from his superior to the Englishman, unsure of what to do next.

“Col. ’ogan,” began Newkirk.

Hogan said nothing as his eyes narrowed on the Corporal. He was poised and ready for a donnybrook if it came down to it.

“Please, Colonel,” he whispered, “I know I was out of line, sir…please, let me go.”

Thankfully, thought Hogan, Newkirk’s anger had given way to embarrassment in front of the others. He nodded slightly to the man.

If the tension in the tunnel had been thick before, it was positively oppressive now. This mission definitely wasn’t getting off to a good start.

“Carter,” said Hogan, as though there had been no interruption, “let me hear if you’ve got the plan straight.”

*.*.*.*.*

The _rendez-vous_ spot at Weber’s farm wasn’t far from camp, barely two and a half miles, but the snow increased the time needed to cover that distance. About two inches had fallen already, and there probably would be another two before this mission was over, making their return with a prisoner in tow would increase the danger.

An ominous silence hung in the air, as though the bitter wind they were trudging against was keeping their tempers in check.

In truth, thought Hogan, it probably was. He’d blown his stack at the Corporal—first mistake. Then he’d backed down in not pulling Newkirk from the mission—second mistake. _Three strikes and you’re out._ He couldn’t afford to make another error in judgement, too much was riding on this.

Despite the steady snowfall and freezing temperature, the woods seemed almost alive with activity. An owl circling overhead in search of some unsuspecting prey; a fox scurrying along the roadside, seeming to keep pace with them; deer darting to and fro across their path; and even a lone firefly impossibly defying the weather and the season as it danced through the flakes.

A chill swept through Hogan.

 _What was the phrase,_ he thought. _Someone walking across your grave?_ That was the feeling. Not natural; not unnatural. But supernatural.

Nothing was wrong; yet something wasn’t right.

Despite the cold, Hogan felt a ring of perspiration forming under his cap.

He raised his hand to halt his men, and motioned them to remain silent. Every sense was keyed, looking for something amiss.

Signalling, he ordered them to deploy into cover on either side of the road.

There was no dispute involving this command; a soldier’s duty—and sense of self-preservation—could easily override an emotion as ephemeral as anger.

 _Perfect place for an ambush._ The trees on both sides of the road were thick and offered plenty of cover, while the snow provided a natural blanket of silence.

Hogan hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until he released a frosty sigh at the safe concealment of his men.

Whatever was out there, he was certain it hadn’t seen them…yet.

Pulling his gun from its holster, he surveyed the area.

This mission had him on edge. They had been planning a double cross for _Weihnachtsmann_. Had Klaussen anticipated it? A double-double cross?

_“Kommen Sie aus ihrem Versteck! Wir wissen, daß Sie dort sind!”_

_Not a very good bluff,_ he thought. _Demanding whoever’s there to show themselves. But sometimes a bluff’s all you’ve got._

Friend or foe, he’d left himself vulnerable to whoever was there. But if it could secure his men’s safety, he’d play the rôle of sacrificial lamb.

A strong gust of wind whipped the snow violently about him. Tiny pellets of ice stung his face, momentarily blinding him, but he held his ground, not daring to make a move that might reveal weakness.

The most important sense for a pilot was his vision, but only desk jockeys believed it was the only sense necessary to fly. Smell, touch, hearing were all vital, and when the sky was thick with ack-ack clouds or a fuel line ruptured, he’d learned exactly how invaluable those other senses could be.

His eyes might have betrayed him, but his hearing had not. Hogan whirled toward the slight rustling.

 _“Kommen Sie mit erhobenen Händen heraus!”_ he shouted, ordering whoever was there out into the open.

From the scurrying that accompanied his words, his command had elicited a response.

Hogan almost laughed with relief as he caught sight of his prisoner. _So much for the ol’ sixth sense._

He signalled the all-clear. A curious buck was the least of their worries.

After what happened earlier, he was glad to see all his men securing their weapons as they stepped from their hiding places. They had intended to back him up.

Nodding to the group, he holstered his gun, pleased that the tension that had plagued them since the start of the mission had dissipated

_Maybe there is hope for this band of merry men._

*.*.*.*.*

Hogan halted his men a safe distance from the _rendez-vous._ The plan had been to arrive before Klaussen and _reconnoître_ , thus allowing them the element of surprise. Anger, snow, and a nosy deer had snafued that. Now, they were working from a disadvantage: there was the very real possibility that _Weihnachtsmann_ had already prepared his own trap.

Yet, despite it all, Hogan felt a measure of calm in his unease. This was the kind of battle he’d signed on to fight. If his time was up, he’d go out on his terms.

He signalled Carter to move off. The Sergeant had been practised in his rôle, until he had the German pronunciation of his recognition signal down perfectly. Hogan knew he was putting a lot of faith in the young man’s ability, but he believed the youth’s enthusiasm would see him through.

 _Youth?_ There really wasn’t that many years separating him from his men. Yet, his rank and the weight of this command… _Command?_ Hell, he’d fallen into this whole assignment on mere chance: Had _Luftstalag_ 13 not been built on the site of an ancient Teutonic castle, complete with its own network of tunnels…had he not met an Underground unit the night of that first trial escape…had Headquarters London not decided his talent for the unexpected and bizarre could better serve the war effort behind enemy lines…had _Kommandant_ Wilhelm Klink not been such an ineffectual and incompetent officer.

Fate had conspired to take him from his beloved flying, turning him into a ground-based commando. In four months, he’d learned a few things about allowing fate the upper hand when necessary, then turning the tables on it and using it to his advantage. He’d felt something was about to happen tonight—Klaussen would be a substantial prize—and he was ready to play this situation to a positive conclusion.

*.*.*.*.*

Carter felt his heart beating through his winter coat. It sounded like a whole fife and drum corps was keeping pace with him. That was no exaggeration, the rest of the marching band had already taken up residence in his stomach. It was amazing that it hadn’t woken the entire wood. He’d never heard his heart sound so loudly, not even when running track back at Rutherford B. Hayes Polytechnic.

 _How does the Colonel do it,_ he wondered. Nothing ever got to the man. Whether exchanging information with an agent at the Hauserhof in Hammelburg or blowing up a bridge, Hogan never batted an eye. For the Colonel, it was a cakewalk; for him, each mission was a nerve-wracking experience.

He was scared—no question about it—but he’d been entrusted with the most important part of this mission—making contact with _Weihnachtsmann_ and luring him back to where the others were waiting. No matter how he felt, he wasn’t going to let the Colonel down.

Gritting his teeth, as much to stop them chattering from nerves as against the cold, Carter quickened his pace to the _rendez-vous._

*.*.*.*.*

Hogan watched Carter disappear into the darkness, his eyes remaining fixed on the spot where he could last make out the Sergeant’s form. His mind was already calculating the deployment of his men for the ambush. They were going to have to take Klaussen from the front and rear if Carter was going to escape unharmed.

He hated second-guessing himself; he’d chosen Carter because he had no choice. Even if the others had jumped to go on this mission, there were things that no _SS_ uniform could disguise—Kinch’s skin colour for one, and both Newkirk and LeBeau’s barely concealed anti-German sentiment, even around members of the German Underground.

“He’ll be okay, Colonel,” whispered Kinch.

Hogan nodded as he turned back to his men. He had no doubt that, at the moment, Carter was the safest of his team. _Weihnachtsmann_ would do nothing to him, lest he lose his chance to catch Papa Bear.

All bases were covered; he’d left nothing to chance. Yet, even though he was playing by his rules, he had the feeling that this was Klaussen’s game.

*.*.*.*.*

Carter peered cautiously through the copse of trees on the edge of Weber’s farm.

Old man Weber was known in Hammelburg as a loyal German, fiercely devoted to the Nazi party, with little patience or tolerance for his fellow man. The Sergeant had only seen him twice since becoming a prisoner, and both times it was when he and some of the other POWs had been pressed into service as field hands. He remembered being very surprised to learn from the Colonel that Weber was an Underground sympathiser who looked the other way at any activity taking place on or near his property—one of the reasons why this old barn had come to be used as a _rendez-vous._

He licked his lips, surprised at how dry his mouth had become in the past few minutes. His legs felt like a cross between lead and Jell-O, and he had to force them to move the last few yards.

Even with a fresh coating of snow, the barn looked derelict and sinister in the ambient light from the pinkish night sky. The howling of the wind made it all feel like something out of those horror movies he’d seen as a kid.

 _It isn’t such a far-fetched comparison,_ he thought. _There is something dangerous lurking inside._

He grabbed the handle on the barn door. Despite the protection from his wool gloves, the metal was like clutching ice and sent a deep chill through his body. He’d been expecting the well-rusted hinges to make the devil’s own noise when opened, and was relieved that the weather-beaten door swung open easily.

Quickly stepping over the ledge, he shut the door behind him. Breathing heavily, he leaned against the rough wood, hoping that the slight click the latch made hadn’t alerted _Weihnachtsmann_ to his presence.

“Hullo?” he whispered, as his eyes adjusted to the interior darkness.

He was surprised by the warmth surrounding him; it was a pleasant change from the weather outside. Having grown up in the farm country of North Dakota, he knew that there was always a certain amount of “barn heat” radiating from the animals and stored hay. But, this was different. It felt comfy and toasty, like being in his parents’ living room with a roaring fire blazing in the hearth. Yet, he couldn’t make out any heat or light source; it was as dark as pitch.

Straining his ears, he listened intently for a sign of movement either ahead or in the loft above.

“Hullo?” he called louder this time.

The only reply was a soft metallic click.

Carter felt a flush of fear at the sound, and the inside of his mouth tasted like chalk. Someone was there and had a gun, drawn and ready to use.

 _“Wer sind Sie, und was wollen Sie hier?”_ The voice cracked like a whip from out of the darkness.

It was an order to identify himself, and Carter turned automatically to address what sounded like a superior officer. He opened his mouth to begin reciting the recognition code, realizing in horror that his mind had gone blank.

_Oh boy, the Colonel’s gonna kill me for blowing this!_

_What are the words?_ he thought, as he wracked his brain, feeling his panic grow.

_“Ich werde sie nicht noch einmal fragen…”_

The tone warned that this would be his last chance to reply. He’d never liked pressure; it always made him nervous—and when he was nervous, he forgot things.

It’s a poem! He was relieved that he remembered that much. Something about night and light…

_“Wer sind Sie…”_

And doing right…

_“Und was wollen Sie hier?”_

_When all else fails, grandma always said to put things in God’s hands,_ he thought. _That’s it!_ If his grandma were still alive, he’d have hugged her six ways to Sunday.

 _“Vertrauen Sie auf Gott_!” he shouted, remembering the poem’s words.

_“Was?”_

A question. That was a good sign.

_“Obwohl ihr Pfad dunkel als Nacht ist…”_

As he waited for the reply, he wondered if he sounded German enough. Speaking real German in the middle of a war was a far cry from his clowning with friends and doing an Erich von Stroheim impersonation during amateur night at the Roxy in Crab Apple Junction.

_“Es gibt einen Stern, das demütige zu führen…”_

It had worked; he’d gotten the answer he was expecting.

_“Vertrauen Sie auf Gott…”_

_Trust in God is exactly what I’m going to do from here on out,_ he thought.

_“Und Das Recht macht.”_

_“Weihnachtsmann?”_ he asked, desperately hoping he could keep the anxiousness from his voice.

_“Papa Bär?”_

_Uh-oh,_ he thought. _Stalemate._ That was the answer the Colonel had warned him to expect, so at least he knew better than to give out a straight reply.

All he had to do now was to get _Weihnachtsmann_ to come with him. _Yeah, this is going to be a real piece of pie._

_“Papa Bär hat mich geschickt, Sie zu ihm zu bringen.”_

He hated talking into the darkness like this; there was no way to determine how his telling a Nazi spy that he was only a messenger boy was going over. And judging by the silence in response, the answer wasn’t good.

Carter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He knew it wasn’t that long since he’d last spoken, but it seemed like an eternity. The chill of fear had burned off in the warmth of the barn, only to be replaced by a running stream of perspiration that he could feel coursing down his back.

 _If you’re gonna shoot, just do it and get it over with!_ He bit his tongue to keep from shouting what he was feeling. _No point in giving you any ideas._

_"_ _Es scheint, dass ich Papa Bär unterschätzt habe."_

He jumped at the voice, amazed at how near it was to him now. He had always prided himself on his acute sense of hearing, but the Ratzi hadn’t made a sound as he moved through the darkness.

 _“Uh, ja,”_ he stumbled on the words, aware that in his surprise his two-word answer sounded about as German as Carmen Miranda.

_“Ich muß ihn heute Abend treffen.”_

Carter began to form his reply, surprised that the darkness in the room was slowly receding. There seemed to be light glowing from behind _Weihnachstmann._ It was bright enough now that he could even make out the silhouette of the man. Yet, there didn’t seem to be a lantern or flashlight visible anywhere.

_The Colonel was right, Klaussen sure looks powerful—at least his shadow sure looks big…_

It was a few seconds before Carter realized in horror that he couldn’t direct his gaze from the light source, that it was holding him transfixed, like a deer caught in the headlights of a fast-moving truck.

 _Yeah,_ he thought ironically, _a little deer that goes swift and sure…and splat!_

He struggled to move, feeling his heart racing a mile a minute, but he couldn’t break free of whatever was holding him in place.

_“Ich habe nicht viel Zeit übrig. Sie werden mich zu ihm bringen.”_

_What the heck is goin’ on?_ His ears had heard the words spoken in German, but he’d heard them inside his head in English.

He had to take Klaussen back to meet Papa Bear; it was an order. But it wasn’t the order the Colonel had given him.

He stared dumbly at the light, feeling it wash over him, like a great undertow pulling him down, burrowing deeper into his brain. He could feel his will to resist being sapped from him, and he no longer possessed the energy to resist.

_It’s all my fault. I’ve let everyone down…_

*.*.*.*.*

_Something’s wrong._

Hogan couldn’t explain how he knew it: a change in the wind’s direction; a tingling on his spine; a high-pitched tone in his left ear. There was nothing tangible that he could point to telling him that Carter was in trouble; yet, he knew it with certainty.

Logic told him to pull the plug on the mission and get the rest of his men safely back to camp, but he had never been one to follow logic. The Sergeant was one of his men, and he wasn’t about to leave him behind.

Besides, if Carter had blabbed, then they were sitting ducks waiting here. _Weihnachstmann_ was supposed to come to them, not the other way around.

Usually his sixth sense was a straightforward warning mechanism; it was inexplicable, even as far as knowing precisely what it was directing him to do. After it caught his attention, he just followed his instincts. This time, however, something was clearly telling him to meet _Weihnachstmann_ face-to-face, have it out with him, and destroy him and his spy network once and for all.

It wasn’t his nature to think in terms of cold-bloodedly dispatching someone—even someone as dangerous as Klaussen. Of late, a lot of things hadn’t been part of his nature either. War was rewriting his moral code daily.

He signalled his men to get into formation. A party of _SS_ , apparently on patrol, just might manage to bluff its way through.

The men said nothing about this latest change of plans, even though their expressions betrayed their thoughts. Hogan was well aware that they didn’t understand his seat-of-the-pants command style. They were obeying out of a sense of duty, rather than loyalty. He could live with that for now.

Hell, if positions were reversed, he doubted he’d have gone along willingly with some of the orders he’d issued in the past.

*.*.*.*.*

“They’ve got Carter,” whispered LeBeau, as he caught sight of two pairs of tracks leading away from the barn, and, by extension, the trap they’d planned.

Hogan shook his head in reply. There was no sign of a struggle: the spacing of the footsteps in the fresh snow was steady, with no sign of hesitation or fumbling. They were clearly walking side-by-side, not as prisoner and captor.

“He went willingly,” he whispered. The only solace Hogan found in that was, at least for the moment, it looked like Klaussen was working alone.

*.*.*.*.*

The men followed the tracks for nearly three-quarters of a mile before Hogan realized that Carter was leading _Weihnachtsmann_ like a homing pigeon straight to _Stalag_ 13.

The question was why?

Hogan refused to believe that the Sergeant had sold out. Carter wasn’t the type; he’d stake his eagles on that.

_What did Klaussen do to him?_

_Eliminate the impossible,_ he thought, remembering words he read somewhere in what often seemed like another lifetime. _Whatever remains must be the truth._

There was only one reason why Carter would abandon the plan and go willingly with the Nazi: he’d been drugged. Too little time had elapsed for routine interrogation procedures, let alone the stuff the Nazis were infamous for.

 _Klaussen’s played his hand well,_ he thought wryly. He’d managed to trump Papa Bear, so far, but _Weihnachtsmann_ had made one mistake: arrogance. And it was one that Hogan fully intended to exploit.

 _That is why I must meet him alone tonight,_ he recalled what Klaussen told Schultz earlier.

 _Weihnachtsmann_ was still in the dark over where Carter was taking him; otherwise, Hogan was sure he’d have called for reinforcements. There were no other tracks: Klaussen _was_ working alone.

Now that Hogan knew exactly where the enemy was heading, he could manoeuvre his men in front of him and Carter, and finally spring his own trap.

*.*.*.*.*

Hogan stepped in front of his quarry, making certain that the outline of the luger in his hand was clearly visible, even while keeping his face shielded by the brim of his cap.

_“Aus für einen kleinen Spaziergang, meine Herren?”_

Klaussen and Carter stopped automatically in response. The big man didn’t move, but his body’s stance had more in common with a tiger waiting to pounce, than a rabbit caught in a trap. Carter, however, didn’t appear capable of undirected movement, as the Sergeant stared dully ahead, seemingly oblivious to all that was happening around him.

 _I was right about the drugs,_ Hogan thought.

Once more, he felt that same unease around Klaussen that he experienced earlier in the _Kommandant_ ’s office. But he had a job to do, and right now, he wasn’t about to let anything get in his way. He nodded slightly to his men.

Newkirk and LeBeau didn’t give the Nazi an opportunity to make a break for it, as they stepped from the shadows, and roughly pulled the German’s arms behind his back, handcuffing him. While Kinch, bringing up the rear, made certain to pull back the bolt on his gun loud enough for its menace to be apparent.

 _“Es würde scheinen, daß Sie mich an einem Nachteil, mein Kapitän haben.”_ The words weren’t said in fear or even anger; the usual emotions one would expect in a situation like this, but rather as though this was a routine mistake grown used to over the years.

Hogan stepped forward, making sure that Klaussen had a good look at him. _“Es gibt keinen Fehler, Weihnachtsmann.”_

Despite the dark, the snow and the cold, Hogan could sense the change in Klaussen’s mood. He could feel the eyes of the Nazi boring into him in unrestrained hatred, as recognition of his identity dawned on him. If his hands weren’t bound, the German would have no compunction in killing him, of that he was certain.

“I’d underestimated my enemies’ resourcefulness in finding allies!” he spat in slightly accented English. Then whispered barely loud enough for Hogan to hear, “But your victory will be a pyrrhic one, I assure you.”

Hogan answered the threat by grinning slyly at his prize; it felt good to finally be the one in control.

Stepping aside, he gave the order to begin the walk back to camp. Klaussen actually did them a favour: they were now no more than a half-mile from the emergency tunnel entrance.

 _Weihnachtsmann_ appeared to be a very docile prisoner, as he set a slow pace in the direction Kinch and LeBeau were prodding him.

“How is he?” Hogan whispered to Newkirk, who was doing his best to rouse the Sergeant from his somnambulistic state.

“Don’t know, sir. I think it’ll wear off eventually.” The Englander gently shook the Sergeant, trying to get him to follow. “C’mon, Carter.”

Whether Newkirk’s solicitude was motivated by comradeship or guilt, Hogan wasn’t sure. The one thing he did feel certain of, however, was that this mission had been a turning point for them all.

*.*.*.*.*

Once more the dice had come up in his favour, and Hogan couldn’t help but feel a certain thrill in the completion of another successful assignment—even one that didn’t quite start the way intended.

Yet, as they neared camp, he sensed that same disquiet he’d experienced earlier. Something was off-kilter. The woods had been alive earlier; now they seemed dead, as though a pall blanketed the area. He couldn’t explain the feeling—hell, he never could—but it was there, tangible and smothering in its effect. And it was with some relief when he saw the lights from the _stalag_ through the trees near the tunnel entrance.

He halted his men, trying to sense if anything was amiss before giving the order to head home.

 _Man, when I start thinking of this dump as home…_ Hogan smiled at the absurdity of the thought. It felt good, liberating, and allowed him to somewhat shake off his unease.

“End of the line, _Weihnachtsmann_ ,” he whispered.

“My enemies have a delicious sense of irony,” the German answered through gritted teeth.

Hogan watched Klaussen staring at the watchtowers in the distance, not with fear, not with resignation, but more like defiance. _The superman mentality to the end._

He signalled LeBeau to head for the tunnel entrance.

Nodding his reply, the Frenchman timed his departure to avoid detection by the searchlights, as he sprinted from concealment to open the tunnel trapdoor.

The camouflaged tree stump was the first thing this evening to shake Klaussen; and Hogan made sure to add a well-placed jab.

“Yankee ingenuity.” He shoved _Weihnachtsmann_ ahead of him, still somewhat perplexed to notice that same lone firefly keeping pace with them, as they headed for the tunnel entrance.


	3. …And Presents on the Tree

**With his men safe in the tunnel and Klaussen their prisoner,** Hogan breathed a sigh of relief. They’d managed to capture the head of a Nazi spy ring, one with worldwide reach. After the events of tonight, it was a victory that the Colonel savoured.

Newkirk was still trying to rouse Carter from his hypnotic state.

“How’s he doing?”

“I think ’e’s coming out of it, sir.” The RAF Corporal gently slapped the Sergeant’s face. “Isn’t that right, Andrew?”

Carter started to come around. “Uh, Newkirk. _Weihnachtsmann…_ we’ve got to—” He paused as he took in their surroundings. “How did we get back here?” he asked.

“You’re going to be fine, _mon ami_.”

Seated in a chair, with his arms and legs bound by Kinch, Klaussen was surprised when he saw Hogan and his men begin to change back into their POW uniforms. “It would seem I underestimated both you _and_ Papa Bear,” he said calmly. “That you’ve managed to fool so many—including myself—is a testament to your cunning and resourcefulness. You would have made for an excellent agent.”

Hogan was putting on his crush cap when he paused, and turned on his prisoner. “That you could even consider I’d betray my country or my men…” His face flushed in anger. “You’ll have a long time to think about it when you get to England.”

“It would seem your network may be as vast as my own, _mijn kolonel_.”

This time Klaussen’s voice was tinged with respect for his nemesis. “Your fealty has spared you—more than you will ever know.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you say that to all your captors.” Hogan smirked. “Now, what did you use on Carter?”

“A conjurer’s trick; nothing more. Your Sergeant will be quite all right, I assure you.”

“Shall I gag him, sir?”

Hogan nodded to Kinch.

Before the gag was placed in his mouth, Klaussen whispered so only Hogan could hear, “We shall not meet again, _Kolonel._ I wish you and your men, _veel geluk._ ”

“Right. I’ll just bet you do.”

*.*.*.*.*

“We were getting worried, Colonel,” said Garlotti, as he watched Hogan and the other four men climb up the tunnel ladder.

“Everything under control?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You just made it back in time for evening roll call,” said Olsen. “I was afraid we were going to have to cover for you.”

After the last of the men came up from the tunnel, the entrance was closed so that to all outward appearances it was merely another bunk. They had just made it by the skin of their teeth, as Sgt. Schultz burst through the door to call the men for roll call.

“Klink must be nuts. It’s a flippin’ blizzard out there.”

“Look at it this way, Newkirk. The _Kommandant_ isn’t going to want to be out there any longer than we are,” said Kinch.

“Old blood-and-guts will want to make merry for Christmas,” said Hogan, “and he can’t do that if he keeps us out too long.”

The men filed past the Sergeant of the Guard to line up outside in formation. Surprisingly, the storm had briefly subsided, and a warm breeze, almost balmy for that time of year, had begun to blow.

Klink was bundled from head to toe, prepared for the worst of the storm, and was as surprised as the men at the abrupt change in the weather.

“Report!” he bellowed.

“All present and accounted for, sir.” replied Schultz.

“Good. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and in the spirit of the holidays, there will be an extra ration of white bread and butter for all the men in the camp.”

“Your munificence is overwhelming us, sir.” said Hogan, biting back as much of the sarcasm as he felt concerning Klink’s generosity.

“Hogan,” began Klink, “you and your men should be grateful for the generosity that the Ministry of Propaganda offered.” He absentmindedly brushed away at that troublesome firefly.

“Oh, we are, sir. We are.”

“Dismissed,” said Klink in a huff, as he turned back to his own quarters.

As the men dispersed, they fell into groups muttering about the supposed generosity to which they were being treated. “Lousy slice of white bread…I’d like to tell ’em where to stick their generosity…Another gift from the grand and glorious Ratzis…”

They slowly headed back to their barracks.

*.*.*.*.*

Opening the door to the barracks, the men’s senses were assaulted—not by the usual smell of cabbage soup and sweaty long-johns—instead, the air was alive with the scents of the season: cinnamon, clove, ginger, nutmeg and pine.

On the communal table stood a small evergreen, decorated simply but beautifully for the holiday, as well as an assortment of sausage, nuts, cheeses, gingerbread and seasonal cookies. Upon every bunk in the great room sat a present, wrapped in the same simple style in which the tree had been dressed.

“What the hell?” said Hogan, amidst the gasps of awe from the others. “Kinch, the tunnel!”

The Sergeant was already ahead of his Colonel’s order, and had opened the tunnel entrance. Hogan practically slid down the ladder to the tunnel, with Kinch and the rest of his men following behind.

Where there should have been a prisoner, was an empty chair: the ropes neatly wrapped in bows about it.

“Newkirk, LeBeau check the tunnels. He can’t have got far.”

“Tell the Colonel to get up here on the double,” shouted Olsen’s voice from above.

Hogan bolted up the ladder. “What is it?”

“Listen, sir.”

There was an audible clatter from the roof that stopped suddenly.

Hogan and his men ran to the door and opened it. Their hearts were in their throats: in the distance just barely discernable in the cloud-covered night sky was something that wasn’t a plane or helicopter.

“Sir, that looks like—”

“Don’t say it, Carter,” interrupted the Colonel in astonishment, pushing his crush cap further back on his head. “Besides, reindeer can’t fly.”

_~ Finis ~_

© 2016 Dash O’Pepper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Disclaimers :_** _Hogan’s Heroes_ is a registered trademark of Bing Crosby Productions and Viacom/Paramount. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” © 27 September 1943 by Walter Kent (music) and James “Kim” Gannon (words). All rights reserved. This work of fanfiction is not meant in any way to infringe on copyrights already held by these companies, their subsidiaries, and/or their estates. The original characters and plot of this fanfiction are the property of its author.


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